Ace In The Hole

"Can I have your luggage, Mr. Baird?" The officer looked at the claw marks on the side. "A bit rough out there, eh?"

"Plenty more than what I'm used to." Spector smiled. They were bored and not paying much attention to him. He was going to get in.

The officer set the suitcase onto the x-ray machine and pointed to a metal detector. "If you'll please walk through, sir." As he stepped under, the metal detector's alarm beeped. Spector stopped dead and reached slowly into his pocket. He could feel at least twenty people staring at him. He pulled out a fistful of change and handed it to the cop. He'd needed it for the laminating machine. "Mind if I try again?"

The cop motioned him forward with a slow sweep of his hand. Spector stepped through noiselessly and sighed. The officer reached around and handed him his change. Spector pocketed it and smiled again.

"Your bag's right there." The cop pointed and then turned back to the hotel entrance.

Spector picked up his suitcase; it was heavy and almost slipped out of his sweaty palm. He walked slowly across the lobby to the registration desk. There weren't many suits that didn't have bulges under them. Getting his room took longer than it should have. The clerk was a fat officious prick who gave him the fish-eye when he said he'd be paying in cash. The little creep was trying to impress the Secret Service boys or something equally stupid. It was probably his once-in-alifetime chance to be a big cheese. Spector would come back some day and drop the guy. He snatched the key when the clerk finally offered it, and headed quickly for the elevators.

He was almost there when he heard someone call out. "James. James Spector. Hey, Specs." The voice sounded familiar, but that wasn't necessarily good. He turned around slowly. The man walked up to him smiling and held out a hand. He wore an ash-gray suit and had carefully styled hair. He was a couple of inches shorter than Spector, but much more muscular.

"Tony C." He let out a breath and relaxed his shoulders. "No way this is happening." He and Calderone had grown up together in Teaneck, but Spector had lost track of him years ago.

Tony reached down, grabbed Spector's hand, and gave it a firm shake. "My main man. The pick-and-roll prince. What are you doing here?"

"Uh, lobbying." Spector coughed. "What about you?"

"I work for Hartma

"Especially for the girls." Spector shuffled uncomfortably. Apparently, none of the cops who'd checked his ID card had heard Tony, but he still felt exposed. "Look, it's great to see you, but I'd like to get settled in. It's a real zoo outside, I tell you."

"If you think it's a zoo out there, you should see what's going on inside." Tony slapped Spector on the shoulder. There was real warmth in the gesture, the kind Spector hadn't been exposed to in years. "What's your room number?"

Spector held up his key card. "1031."

"1031. Got it. I want to have di

"Fine. I've got plenty of time to kill while I'm down here," Spector said. The elevator pinged behind them. Tony backed away and waved. "See you later." Spector tried to sound like he didn't dread the idea. This was turning out to be weirder than Freakers on New Year's Eve.

Hiram was hosting a reception in his suite at the Marriott. Gregg was supposed to put in an appearance, so the rooms were packed with New York delegates and their families. Most of the suites Tachyon had entered stank of cigarettes and old pizza. This one stank of cigarettes, but the trays dotted strategically through the rooms held tiny quiches and piroshki. Tach snagged one, and the flaky pastry exploded in his mouth, followed quickly by the rich flavor of its mushroom filling.

Brushing crumbs from his fingertips and the lapels of his coat, Tach reached up and patted Hiram on the shoulder. The big ace was dressed with his usual flair, but circles hung like bloated bruises beneath his eyes, and his skin had the unhealthy look of moist dough.

"Don't tell me you had time to slip down to the kitchens and cook all this," teased Tachyon.

"No, but my recipes.."

"I suspected as much." Tach bent and flicked a crumb from the top of his patent leather pump with the edge of his handkerchief. When he straightened, he had gathered his courage. "Hiram, are you all right?"

The word exploded in a sharp puff. "Why?"

"You iook unwell. Come to my room later, and I'll check you over."

"No. Thank you, but no. I'm fine. Just tired." A smile creased the broad face as if it had been abruptly painted on by a cartoon animator.

Tachyon expelled a pent-up breath, shook his head as he watched Hiram bustle away to greet Senator Daniel Moynihan. The alien circulated, smiling, shaking hands-it still struck him as an odd custom even after all these years. On Takis there were two extremes: limited contact because between telepaths casual touching was repugnant; or between close friends and relatives the full embrace. Either choice caused problems on Earth. The light touch seemed snobby, and the full embrace raised homophobic reactions in the males of this planet. So Tachyon mused, and watched his gloved hand being swallowed again and again by the eager clasping fingers of the humans who engulfed him.

On a sofa set beneath one of the windows a man sat surrounded by three laughing women. The youngest sat on his knee. Behind him her sister leaned in, and twined her arms about his neck. Next to him on the sofa was a pretty grayhaired woman. Her dark eyes were affectionate as they rested on his face. There was a warmth in the scene that seemed to touch the emptiness that Tachyon felt in his own life.

"Come on, Daddy," pleaded the youngest. "Just one little speech." Her voice altered slightly, gaining in sonority and depth. "What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, set honor in one eye, and death i'th'other, and I will look on both indifferently; for, let the gods so speed me as I love the name of honor more than I fear death. "

"No, no, no." The man punctuated each word with a shake of the head.

"Julius Caesar might not be the best choice for a political convention," said Tachyon softly. Four sets of dark eyes regarded him; then the man lowered his gaze and his fingers combed nervously through his gray-shot beard. "Pardon my intrusion, but I could not help overhearing. I am Tachyon."

"We sort of guessed," said the girl behind the sofa. She surveyed the Takisian's brilliant outfit of green and pink, and tossed a droll look to her sister.

"Josh Davidson." The man indicated the woman beside him. "My wife, Rebecca, and my daughters, Sheila and Edie."

"Charmed." Tachyon brushed his lips across the back of three hands.

Edie chuckled, her gaze flickering between her father and sister. Emotions swirled about the little party. There was something just beneath the surface that Tachyon was missing, but deliberately missing. People had their secrets, and just because Tachyon could read them didn't mean he had the right. Another lesson learned after forty years on Earth was the necessity of filtering. The cacophony of untrained human minds would soon have driven him mad if he hadn't lived huddled behind his shields.

"Now I recognize you," said Tachyon. "You were brilliant last winter in Doll's House."

"Thank you."

"Are you a delegate?"

"Oh, god, no." The woman laughed. "No, my daughter, Sheila, is our representation."

"Daddy's a bit of a cynic where politics are concerned," said the older sister. "We were lucky to get him down here at all."